i'm getting the led out.

i JUST realized i made a horrible mistake on my favorite songs list... 

GOING TO CALIFORNIA  by LED ZEPPELIN!

absences! ridiculous...

i'm gonna say: i've been absent from school a lot. a lot. it's in the teens of how many days i've missed. but being that, i don't just skip school for the fun of it. i had the flu for a week and recently i've come down with a bad cold, fever and all. so it's not my falut i get sick. i can't help it. so when i come back to school and get punished for missing days, it's absolutely ridiculous. it's not like i do bad in school either. i've maintained a GPA of about 3.8 and i just accepted into NHS. i have been in many leadership roles for theatre, am co-captain of the flag corps, and take art classes outside of school. i'm not ashamed to say i've been accomplished and continue to be so. so when i get unexcused absences or get threat ed by the administration, i think it's fair to say i get pretty angry. and it's not only me, it's my friends too. one of my best friends has been diagnosed with CF since 4th grade. needless to say, she's constantly out of school. however, because her family knows what is wrong with her, there is no need for a doctor as there is nothing they can do. all they can do is wait it out. she has a tremendous GPA and also has been working in theatre, plus all the many things she does. however, the administration ignores this and attempts to punish her more severly than me. i'm not saying they should completely aboslish the system in which the school handles absences but it needs to be scrutinized and dramatically changed. it's just not right.

green day. it's not just for posers and emo kids.

yeah. that's billie joe armstrong from green day.

i have to admit... when i first got into green day, it was because of american idiot. not meaning to bash american idiot, it's a brilliant album and laden with truth and courage.. i'm just not a fan of those people who hear some song on the radio and call themselves instant die-hard fans just when they've got a few hits. i absolutely love their old stuff, i mean... dookie and warning and international superhits were amazing. but that doesn't mean i can't like them now. they're growing, just like any artist has to . they know what's up. they get their inspiration from REAL bands like the clash, bob dylan, the ramones, the stones and the beatles! they're not some emo junkie poser band like fall out boy. ew. no. and i have to say, i'm super pumped for their new album which comes out tomorrow. oh! and plus they're environmentalists! they've joined up with NRDC, the most influential environmentalist group in the states. plus billie joe's a vegetarian... so... it's meant to be :D

they basically did what all the magazines said...

"GREEN DAY SAVES ROCK"

HARRY POTTER. YEAH.

HARRY POTTER = LIFE.

the new harry potter trailer just came out and now i'm super excited. the harry potter series is basically the best thing ever. it's actually good. not like twilight, which makes me want to die. i hate edward cullen. a lot. but... harry potter is freaking insane. i'm super sad it's almost over and i can't believe all the books are done. i'm pretty sure jk rowling needs to publish like... an encyclopedia of harry potter or something. that'd be awesome. so me and my friends will probably see the movie at the midnight premier, like last year. it's the coolest thing ever. people dress up and it's crazy. so... yeah. i love harry potter. and i'm still angry sirius black died becaue he's my favorite character. boo.

favorite songs. ever.

my favorite songs in life.

1. Like a Rolling Stone - Bob Dylan (changes with Visions of Johanna)
2. Imagine - John Lennon
3. Revolution - the Beatles (this one is hard because my third favorite song is always a beatles song, but it changes all the time)
4. Love is Just a Four-Letter Word - Joan Baez
5. Peace Frog - the Doors
6. Macy's Day Parade - Green Day (same deal as the Beatles... this changes)
7. Me and Bobby McGee - Janis Joplin
8. Bold as Love - Jimi Hendrix
9. Baba O'Reily - the Who
10. Start Me Up - the Rolling Stones

i know i'm forgetting stuff...

seussical

seussical the musical. a.k.a northview's fall musical. it starts, for me, may 26th, exactly a month after the diary of anne frank ended. i'm interviewing for the tech position of stage manager. which i'm not too worried about getting. because, let's face it, no one else is qualified. but... what i REALLY want to do is... design makeup for the show. so what i'm doing is interviewing for both. i superly want to do it, like crazy. it'd be the coolest thing of my life. i've had experience and all, but i'm really anxious about it. i think it's what i want to do when i graduate, which by the way needs to happen NOW. so.. yeah. i think i'll be ok. ... hopefully.

heathcliff is so hardcore

WUTHERING HEIGHTS. it's the best book ever. the end.

Paradise

Paradise 

In paradise, he captured me...

He tossed me between and among

Grand mountains and flowing lavish rivers

Alas, all the while, he drove me down like a shaved pencil.

 

And yet, my heart pangs...

For I am of no worth, I am nothing

Without the contact of our two skins

I have been starved, beaten to a pulp by the wonder of it all.

Nevertheless, it no longer matters... 

My innermost heart repeats to me that

I fear no barren starvation nor lack of shelter 

Desire is upon me and pervades my worldly body and soul.

I stand in a wasteland of his ecstasy....

There is no everlasting misery in his wilderness 

Except for boundless lust, wretched in its holiness

For, in our blissful love, we make the gods weep with envy. 

Formally, I will have to admit, I have no understanding whatsoever for the rules of literature. 

But really... should there be?

Rules, I mean. 

There should be no rules for art, and writing undoubtably is.

I think I just write whatever I think looks good. 

Truly, I could care less for grammar and english class. 

An understanding came to me

when I signed up for classes at the end of last year. 

The end of my sophomore I came into my own. 

And I discovered, contrary to my previous belief, English class was not what I enjoyed.

I began to be unable to stand sitting in class, listening to the rules of literature.

Listening to the reasons the author wrote this in this chapter, or what this is a symbol of. 

It absolutely did not interest me whatsoever. 

It took no thought, only memorizing. 

And then it was unbearable when I understood. 

And I began to write, more than I have ever before. 

Rules, oh I detest them! 

What are they good for?

Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

And when I knew I could write, I could truly write, without school and all its rules... 

That was when I could not, would not stand for school any longer. 

I do not need it! 

I've had senioritis since my sophomore year.

And now... I can't even remember why I am writing this except for that this poem took

fifteen minutes to write and all of three and a half months to live. But, don't worry,

it's all dramatized...

because i don't know where else to use it....

The Overdose

Sunburned scorned by unyielding sweating tears on his skin

With pitch-forked woolly dark hair was the falter she captured him in

His whole body, twitching and vibrating, failed into a sweet demise

But his long fingered expensive hands covered his aching eyes

Eloquent and nauseated and mind filled exhausting him complete

His body stalking railroad thin and his hallow sinking cheeks

That blew life and mad air into the desirous words he spoke

But she was tiredly suspicious of a prolonging all day toke

Lava lamps trombones saxophones poetry readings and headlights of limousines

Accompanied cheap wine and the lighting of one's body with kerosene

All that she suspected him taking a disastrous part of

So with her head in the guillotine she abandoned her part as his loyal dove

Cameras and tapes and leap frogs kept milky accounts of him

She obsessing with discovering what was poisoning him

She tore her long tangled gorgeous hair with her dirty nails out of her head

And with all of the inky bloody tools she expected to find in his back shed

All the while he kept to his shaken spread hotel sheeted bed

Withdrawal loosening his tongue and bending his mind on being force fed

Alcoholic bottles hung from thin white string on his balcony

She once imagined compulsively but came to realization it was phony

While he was out she dug through bottled ships magazine clips with bleeding bitten lips

Through music sheets and ragged towels to find what made him lose his grip

On top of the world as he was and giving bits to everyone of his soul

His mind and health fell deeper into a pit where only miners of coal could go

Nevertheless he never yawned and never slept during the late night's hours

But stumbled drunkenly in the daytime through the gardener’s flowers

He kept his acoustic filled with guitar picks and a gun

Ready to pull the trigger on his mind going mad to escape this shun

Oh how badly he needed his poison but it was unattainable

So far gone that sock puppets with belated fish heads were even entertain-able  

In a dust circle he wept and coughed shaking and eyes very red and full of dread

Weakened desperately so even unable to pull his skinny body in bed

He just sat and laughed on his incoherent slippery drugged words 

Watching outside his blue carpeted white walled window envied freedom of the birds

But soon she burst into his flat, drenched with anger and deceit

Demanding him to show her the cupboard and store of his drugs' receipt

She filed through all things in his room, through the peas and carrots canned

He could not, would not stand, too weak to meet all of her insane demands

Dressed in black throwing his hands, he stuttered her to “please go in the bathroom, dear”

So she did and mad as hell's lawyers then she heard him then say, “look in the mirror”

Like the living dead he smiled rare at her arrival, tried to move his body to be carried

Closer to her but he would only ever again be moved to the graveyard to be buried

Dead with guilt and dead with shame she looked and his matching left fingered ring

He drank up his passion and shot up on his love for the girl who would death bring

She fell to her knees next to his fainted lifeless body laid her head upon his chest

Crying and dying she put a hand on his face, looked in his blue eyes for assurance of rest

In the ruins of the famous hotel both died of an maddening obsessive overdose

Two lustful and jealous of the other lie dead where star-struck passion flows

And smells of magnolia blows

so this poem.... i really hope people understand it. it was another of one of those uber late poems that I started and finished at about 4:00 AM.  erm....i don't really have much to say about this particular poem... i like it i guess.. and i just really hope anyone who reads this understands the end and what happens to the people and why. i think the title give aids the understanding of this poem, or at least i hope it does because i really don't like to title poems unless it's absolutely necessary.

I Chose to Love You in Silence

The poem I chose is called I Chose to Love You in Silence. The basic outline of the poem is a person who fears to tell the other she loves him, yet she feels pain for it. I chose it because I think it relates to many people who are afraid to tell other people their feelings. The style of the poem is not uncommon. It does not rhyme and it has a simple idea and words. However, I think the poem is good because it is relatable despite the fact that it is simple. Often, I think, the most relatable and simplest things can be the best if there is emotion in it, which this poem clearly has. And I do, also, think it is interesting how the poem begins with the title. 

http://wastefulspace.blogspot.com/  

Vagabond

Vagabond

Blue morning glories crept up the lines of her gate

Dawn rises but it's not her nature to accept her fate

Outlandish peals of laughter connect her close to the rain

Ended two years of confused love, bore her heart dependent to the pain

Questionably bound to pebble ridden roads

Inhabited white walls and a land where rain always flowed

Her drainpipes ran not clear with water but red with opaque wine

Drowned monarchy possessions kept her confined

Outside knowledge she's born fair from where she's suppose to be

Abandoned dealt home, dedicated soul to the changing sea

Crossed all conflicting thoughts and shallow mud puddles

Invented herself vagabond, hid from what would befuddle

Tears were brewing in the inky sky and finally left her stranded

She didn't know her or what was near the night now commanded

Dawn rises she recoils from the shock of light on the line

And the potential for everything to be in a define

Horrified of the orange quaking breaking the darkened static

All is idiosyncratic, but nothing is ever left enigmatic

The skin she wove unraveled dead to reveal anew

Her vagabond ways sashayed her the bird once more flew

Recordings of her life drowned in the waters of their meaning

Ragged gypsies who followed shook their coins demeaning

Trespassed lamps and canes of the cloaked undertaker

Fetched her to the troubled man laying perishing in the acre

The bark of boughs were thick and unyielding

He cried to the night watchman listening to the hour shielding

She bore his body to her new found home his psyche to construe

Satisfied enough to stare at his eyes of a tender and stubborn blue

He woke on a brass bed beneath patched blankets to see her wonder

Triggered and arose a romance of body and mind under lightening and thunder

In scarlet poppy spring both were left momentarily blind but soon to expire

Changed inevitably within one day to ensure no direction to Kintyre

He proudly to her "You don't have freedom unless you feel its beat"

She scolded "Definitions can never make you complete"

Continued she felt to speak "The copper that conquers drives them in herds"

His knowledge longer "Dreams can never be put to sleep yet poets write no words"

Their love persisting she through words and mind to inspire was drawn to him

Like a holiness drawn and entwined closely to a temptation of some sin

The silence that encompassed their cove quickly was to lead astray

By their lack of sincerity the flashing slaughterers will others' to decay

Dearth of human indulgence their reason of being cultivates a motive to stay

The earth dwelt in befalls a thirst for the novel they gave longingly at the open doorway

Neither could be tied down by the speed of the other's changes

Dawn rises when she wakes he was departed he left to estrange

No ink-spilt letter or button of his drenched coat to remember to forget him by

She clad herself in a coat that fell to her knees laid upon her head a beret her only ally

Out the door she left the key in the knob taking no things in her pockets or hands

She took only the whimsical change of self and the loving recall of that man's heartland

About Vagabond

This is first of the three long poems I wrote over the summer. Both the ideas and words in the poem are inspired by a variety of resources that I indulged myself in over the break. Most notable and influential, however, was Bob Dylan's song Visions of Johanna which contain the following lines:

Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin' to be so quiet ?

We sit here stranded, though we're all doin our best to deny it

And Louise holds a handfull of rain, tempting you to defy it

Lights flicker from the opposite loft

In this room the heat pipes just cough

The country music station plays soft

But there's nothing really nothing to turn off

Just Louise and her lover so entwined

And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind.

More than anything did this song persuade me to write this poem, which began as eight of the lines in the second stanza. Vagabond is primarily about a girl who has been out of love for two years and has felt oddly misplaced in her society which she can only describe as insipid. Her solution is to leave and abandon all of her possessions because she discovers one cannot be happy while held down by material things and the truest way of abandoning everything is to become a vagabond, a person whose only constant is change. In the second stanza, the girl has settled somewhat in a newfound home. Nevertheless she flees once again when she feels she is being kept down and her "mask" is falling. The stanza's "orange" refers to morning and how the girl feels night keeps all secrets while the day reveals. Through the second stanza the girl meets a weary boy in her travels who is much like her, a vagabond also. She takes him to her new home and nurses him back to health. Soon they begin a romance, but it is a clash of egos. In the end, both are ready to move on and only linger for each other. Ultimately, after the boy leaves, the girl is content with her situation. 

Summer: If You Can Call It a Break...

Junior year is more excruciating than I ever could have imagined. It has been shaving me down like a used pencil and beating me to a pulp, yet the pace at which I have been running is not close to slowing down in any measure. Even within the past summer, when times of the day and night intermixed and came close to utterly disappearing, my life was more hectic than it had ever previously been. Nights, perhaps too often, reached to hours that men and women would regularly wake to work. While the morning's sun never shone too bright to wake me until the early afternoon. Nevertheless, it was in these late hours that fed all rapturous and sorrowful ideas that flowed constantly out of the curls of my brain. With both paint, words, and thoughts, I crafted more numerously and rapidly than I have been capable of. Opinions and determinations strengthened, and art grew deeper and more surrealistic. Yet, impatience became a constant companion and instead of wasting my precious three months on writing long stories, poetry and song became my savior. I discovered the kings and jesters of literature and simultaneously buried myself deep into the fitful mind and fit my feet into the wandering heels of Arthur Rimbaud. I devoured troubadour songs of Bob Dylan, beatnik poetry such as that of Allen Ginsberg, and the horrific imagery of Edgar Allen Poe. With both the late hours piling leisurely up and with the drunken poetry of these writers I indulged myself in, I felt I was going mad with hallucinatory brilliance. Then, with great misfortune and grief upon my shoulders, did I return to school. I do not, however, criticize the act of going to school, nor do I attempt to diminish the teacher's process of learning. I do, though, fully blame myself for being artistically unable to create under scholarly circumstances. Over the course of the summer I wrote a total of thirty-nine poems that which I am proud of. But, since the start of the school year, I have only been able to complete a single poem and I find myself suffering to write another. When the end of the glorious summer ended, I had a complete knowledge of what was to come (or not to come), nonetheless I achieved no objective to save myself from this gruesome writer's block. Call me fatalistic.